Ally
by forty-two dreams
Summary: Slytherins tend to regard friendship as approximately as safe as a meanspirited dragon with a bad head cold. This has unfortunate effects.
1. Doornail and Post

Draco's father died last night. He was trying to bust out of Azkaban, and the guards got him. He's worse than dead, actually. Lucky me, my father was a coward.

I'm not sure how this affects me. I mean, Goyle and I are Draco's… allies? Our fathers work together. It's a pretty important job, I guess, and everyone's really close. We're a minority now, with all the dilution of wizard blood going on. No one realizes the danger of six million potential enemies, unaware of our position only because no fool mudblood has tattled yet.

So we're more than just kids whose parents work together. Mr. Malfoy's death and the deaths of the four other servants of Our Lord have weakened the resistance movement.

But that still doesn't tell me much. At school, it means Goyle and I protect Draco. Not that he doesn't have more power than both of us combined. He uses that power for us, and we threaten people who threaten him. It doesn't mean we're good at fighting—we've never had any sort of training. We just stand there like a very large snake, and no one wants to guess if it's poisonous. It helps to act really stupid, especially around Draco, like we'd never think to question our position.

Somehow, bodyguards are supposed to be dumb. Not too hard acting stupid, really. You can act on all your instincts, and it's a great excuse when you're supposed to be acting all proper at a ball at the Avery manor, to just let people think we're too stupid to make small talk. And we don't have to worry about homework. After the first few lessons when the feather didn't fly when I glared at it, I sort of gave up. Wasn't in the job description—I was no future ministry employee, anyway. So, we're goons, I guess.

But this doesn't tell me any more than the stuff about our parents. What do I think about this? Draco can't have friends, of course. He's prickly, even for a Slytherin- the word friend doesn't even have meaning for anyone that self-assured. He makes allies, sometimes, but who needs friends when you're the next right hand man to the Dark Lord? Power is a lot better than friends.

But power's not going to help him late tonight.

He's in the astronomy tower, if you want to know, but we can't let anyone in. He told us he was 'contemplating his new role in Our Lord's administration'. Hah. We were specifically told to stand guard—outside the door, please, no need to come in, he would tell us when we were leaving. Bad sign. And I'm staring at Goyle, wondering how this affects me.

It doesn't take a genius to analyze Goyle and I—we're simple creatures. Draco's different. What does he want?

To a Slytherin, this is an important question. Draco's used to getting what he wants. We are used to providing it. He takes care of us and all, but it's mostly about what Draco wants. But he's not going to let on, not tonight.

What he expects is easy. Doornail and Post are going to stand outside and guard the door while he… erm...does whatever. Alone. On the surface of his mind, he wants this, and he's going to get it.

Friendship fascinates and mystifies us Slytherins. We don't, like the other three houses, take it as a common occurrence. The Hufflepuffs almost consider everyone a 'friend'. Only imagine the way a Slytherin thinks and you'll see why we treat it differently. Slytherins get what they want as far as their powers allow. They enter alliances and break them just as quickly. They're convenient to break, in the short run. But what is this miracle called friendship? One achieves success and one's friend is happy. One fails and one's friend thinks only of helping. Slytherins are trained to get what they want from people. How is it possible to do this without the slightest effort? To talk without agenda, deception, or fear, to have no need to distinguish between what one feels and what one is pretending to feel—impossible. It's infinity, the sky, the ocean-- almost unfathomable. But, unlike infinity, someone has to begin it.

I can't do that. To enter the astronomy tower right now would mean the end of Draco's power sharing. I would seek to gain a friend and lose even an ally. He is coming out now. Goyle and I peer into his eyes for a moment, willing him to know what he has ordered us not to say.

To Goyle and I, the death of Mr. Malfoy signifies the death of our hopes for the side called Dark, the death of our fathers' coworker, and the death of the father of an ally.


	2. Without regret

Another misty and unpleasant morning had dawned in Slytherin tower, and third-year Millicent Bulstrode was determined to beat the gloom. As usual, she had awoken early, and Pansy had not. Rather than cast an itching curse until she rolled out onto the thinly carpeted floor, Millie had elected to use more pleasant methods.

"Hey, Parkie, I brought you waffles," she called through deep green curtains. With a kindness that most would consider out of character. "Eat quickly, or you'll give Flitwick a heart attack from anticipation." It boggled the girls' minds why every boy in their year looked right past the thinly veiled flirtations of their charms teacher.

"He can go pet a niffler, for all I care," Pansy Parkinson sputtered out through yawns.

"Come on, I'm not going to class alone," called Millie. With a hint of a plea.

"You'll get used to it," Pansy told her snobbishly, going back to sleep. Without sympathy. "I'm not a first-year Hufflepuff-- you can't bully me into not ditching. I don't care if he casts twenty 'accidental' vanishing charms on your skirt."

"You get dressed right now or I'm hitting you with a Bat Bogey," Millie growled. With fear clothed in annoyance.

"Oh, please. I'm not keeping Draco waiting so I can critique your hexes," Pansy laughed as she finally arose and pulled on a lavender robe that was definitely not part of the school's dress code. Without remorse.

Millie looked her old friend in the eyes for a moment, then decided it would be better to regard the poster of the Singing Sorceress above her bed. "You're no fun anymore." With feigned indifference.

"Look, Millicent, nobody likes you!" she burst out finally. Without a shred of tact. "Can't you just grow up? Not even Crabbe and Goyle are as dense and horrid as you."

Millie began unconsciously balling her hands into fists, then stopped and looked down at these reflexive weapons. Quietly, she flattened them. "You used to be fun," she muttered. With a sinking feeling.

Pansy looked up. "Those days are over now. Draco doesn't want a tomboy for a girlfriend. Besides, what you call fun is barbaric." Without noticing the scathing tone she had adopted.

"You're turning into both our mothers," she realized. With a sense of loss.

"They don't have it so bad," Pansy observed. Without caring.

She combed her hair, dabbed on some blush, and ambled out the dormitory door. "I'm going now," she called over her shoulder.

Without regret.


End file.
